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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837997">Lucky Day Publishing, Inc.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emblue_Sparks/pseuds/Emblue_Sparks'>Emblue_Sparks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Literary Agent Seamus Wickham, Pre Season 4, even that poor bastard knew Chuck's writing sucked, possession of Crowley's last vessel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:55:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emblue_Sparks/pseuds/Emblue_Sparks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley's last vessel is having a rotten day, until he isn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Reverse Prompt Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lucky Day Publishing, Inc.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is for the reverseprompts tumbler blog prompt #11: A Broken Briefcase. This work is unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Kent, England</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>2004</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seamus Wickham nearly levitated with stress when he'd received the latest 'novel' from Carver Edlund, which arrived by post one chilly afternoon. To call it a novel would be exceedingly kind. The man wouldn't know a responsibly written plot that didn't resemble a piece of moldy swiss cheese if his nose led him right into one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why he was put in charge of such appalling drivel, he'd never know. And now, he had to venture out, peddling what he knew to be subpar(again, if one was being kind) literature to those of whom his reputation depended. How he was expected to sugar coat such rubbish, was beyond him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Popping an antacid from the petite travel bottle he kept within his inner breast pocket, he steeled himself for another evening of selling bullshit to the bull itself. At least the publishing company he worked for saw to his meal receipts and hadn't complained when he'd obviously drank his lunch and supper. Although as of late, his blood pressure had been fussing like mad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Buttoning his thick, tweed coat after roping the threadbare scarf around his neck which his dear old mum had knitted for him a few years back, he lifted his briefcase. Seamus had stuffed that infernal package from the states into the aged leather carrier until the blasted thing had almost burst at the proverbial seams, before heading out the door of Lucky Day Publishing and into the overwhelmingly congested section Kent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head was pounding. His throat was parched, despite the delightful threat of rain.</span>
  <span>Taking a step towards the street, he collapsed, pitching headlong down the remaining seven steps to the frightfully small square of grass in front of the busy street. The sweat which had been beading on his brown before his little trip, was trickling down his heated face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing with his left hand, Seamus discovered his right wouldn't work. His head would turn, he could wiggle his toes, but much of his right side refused to obey the commands he was sending it. And to top it off, the damn briefcase had broken wide open, sending page upon page of the American novel, as well as the literature from other ragtag British hopefuls, flying through the air and scattering with the wind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Time's up for you, I'm afraid…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seamus Wickham heard those words just before a charcoal flavored hurricane had violently flown down his throat and abruptly stuffed him in a bottle somewhere deep within himself. A bottle like the sort with a ship inside of it. In fact that was exactly where he was. Imprisoned on a ship, in a bottle, sailing on the gin soaked current swirling in his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Surely you don't mind me borrowing you for a while? Or a few millenia… it's better than any deal I'd have made you. Life could be quite cozy aboard the H.M.S. Possession. No more pathetic attempts to swindle your peers. All the rum you can handle. You do like rum, don't you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seamus was losing his ever loving mind. Had he just suffered a coronary? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A stroke is more accurate. No more salty fare. I'm not fond of the seasoning myself and with me in the driver's seat your health will be in tip top, I assure you. And now, you can learn how a proper salesman closes his deals. My, my...this author does seem wickedly obsessed with these boys he calls the Winchester’s, doesn't he? Suppose we should see what all this fuss is about.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fergus Roderick MacLeod is my name, however, you may call me Crowley. Today my friend, just so happens to be.. your Lucky Day. </span>
  </em>
</p>
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